


He Who Laughs, Lasts

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: RWBY
Genre: Comedian Qrow, Comedy, Explicit Language, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 20:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16394366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Qrow is an up and coming comedian who uses anything and everything as a creative source. Ozpin is the absolutely glorious weirdo sitting in the front row...





	He Who Laughs, Lasts

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me attempting this ridiculous duo again! This is like 15% actual ozqrow and 75% an excuse to have Qrow doing John Mulaney style comedy. Either way, enjoy <3 
> 
> (Title quote by Mary Pettibone Poole)

" _Good evening, New York City!_ It sure is great to be here. How are all you bastards tonight?"

Qrow waited for the roar to die down, taking stock of the stage and what sort of audience he had to work with tonight. Packed venue—no surprise there—with only the first three rows lit enough for him to distinguish faces. Good. Keep looking over the tops of their heads and he was just talking to an empty room. No different than practice in Tai’s basement with a carefully timed laugh track. Qrow straightened his necklace and shot them all a grin.

"Ah, what a response, what a response. You lot are the only ones I can call 'bastard' and get away with it, did you know that? I'm serious! All these uptight fools not understanding that curses are the new endearments. Like, okay. You know how cursing worked back in World War II, right? Yes, you're getting a history lesson. _What?_ Isn't that what you paid for?" Qrow paused, twirling the mic a bit until the laughs dissipated. "It’s a short lesson. Scout's promise. Ha, not that I was ever a goddamn Boy Scout...Anyway, back in the ye old trenches everyone was cursing up a storm. Which was fair. They had reason to. And 'fuck' became the noun, adjective, and—of course—verb of choice. ' _Drop and give me fucking fifty!_ ' ' _Fuck that Nazi scum!_ ' ' _Fucking line up, you useless maggots!_ ' That the sort of stuff. Normal, everyday orders. It was when a superior said, ' _Line up,_ ’ no expletives attached, that you knew _shit was about to go down._ THAT was when you started peeing your big boy pants. Because people being _nice_ to you? Goddamn, what's scarier than that?"

Qrow grinned, throwing a thumbs-up at the guy nodding so forcefully he looked like a bobble-head. "That's me! I call you a lame-ass bastard with a stick shoved so far up your ass you're pooping splinters? I love you! I call you Sir or Ma'am? Anything remotely polite? Yeah, not to be dramatic or anything but I'd let you die in a fire. No big deal."

God but he loved this rush. Two minutes in and the crowd was already responding perfectly, forcing Qrow to slow things down lest they miss his carefully crafted stupidity. It was sort of his thing: edgy and shocking without being truly offensive. At least, not offensive to most. Qrow didn’t know what had crawled up the butts of 50+ year old republicans, but they’d stopped coming to his shows real quick. Pity. He often had a thing or two to say to them.

Gesturing for his fans to keep it up Qrow hooked his ankle under the stool and dragged it center stage, taking a moment to sit and gulp down some of his water. Of course, when he bent to replace the glass the whole thing toppled, water rushing across the stage. There were a few titters from the front.

Qrow ran a hand over his eyes. "Well that wasn't planned," he muttered and the laughs grew louder. "Honestly wasn't. Shit. But isn't this just the perfect transition. I am the goddamn _embodiment_ of bad luck, I swear to god. Is it statistically improbable? Does it inconvenience me or others in some way? Than congratulations! You've won the bad luck lottery! That, my fine laughing friends, is me in a nutshell."

Snatching the glass Qrow twirled it in his hand, peering through and letting those in the front rows distort. Among all the shadowed faces he thought he saw a flash of green.

"I mean I'm a medical disaster." Qrow spread arms, legs, and peered down at his skinny frame. Skinner than most assumed from a distance. "Nothing life threatening, don't worry. You bastards are stuck with me for a good long while. But annoyances? Oh _boy_ have I got a laundry list of those." He stuck the glass between his knees and slipped the mic between thumb and palm, starting to tick things off on his fingers. "Chronic allergies? Check. Early onset arthritis? Check. More stitches than I've bothered to keep track of over the years? Jesus fuck yes. Did you know you don't need to get stitches immediately after cracking your chin open at the dentist's office? The key word there is 'immediately.' I always knew dentists were the devil's agents, but I never thought they'd make you get your teeth cleaned and _then_ ship you off to the E.R. That's cruel even by Satan's standards. Right? Tell me I'm not wrong about this."

The crowd told him. With more enthusiasm than the bit deserved, but he'd always been good at getting the energy up. Truth be told, Qrow's material was mediocre at best, but that just didn't matter if you knew how to deliver it. Comedy was all in the performance, never the jokes themselves, and Qrow had always been a performer.

Opening his knees and bending fast to catch the glass (his bad luck was only outweighed by his skill) Qrow rolled it gently into one of the light fixtures, spun once on the stool, and ended in an exaggeratedly slouched position. His list was growing.

"Broke my wrist, broke my arm—non-dominant arm. Thank you, god I don't believe in—broke my tibia, broke my toes, dislocated this thumb..." Qrow wagged it at the audience, morphing straight into a rude gesture that elicited as many gasps as it did laughs. "Aw, I didn't mean that. I gotta keep up the bad boy image somehow though. I mean I _look_ tough. All solid and manly." A quick pause to wink randomly at someone in the front. Qrow spotted white hair before his jittery gaze moved on. Great. Probably made some grandma's night. "But looks are deceiving. Trust me when I say I'm a fucking mess. Broke my collarbone too falling out of bed one night. Onto three-inch plush carpeting. How does that shit even happen?"

Amused murmurs of sympathy gave Qrow time to swallow compulsively. He was starting to regret spilling that water. It was right about the point in the routine where his throat became a goddamn desert and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He might be able to secure another glass. Turn it into a joke while a stagehand really got him more, but Qrow had already pulled from enough improv for one night. Best not test his luck.

Ha.

"I nearly drowned at my sister's birthday party because I fell off my little donut thing and got stuck under the raft that everyone else was floating on. Natural selection at work there, I'm sure. Oh, you know that cinnamon challenge? The one that can _collapse lungs_ and _kill_ people? Yeah, guess who pulled that shit. The best by FAR though was the nosebleeds I got in high school. Now nosebleeds on their own are not cool. Blood? Cool. Nose blood? Yuck. But as we've established my body is a little bitch and there's this thing where my sinuses are malformed—I know, I know. I'm really making your night here." Qrow flapped a hand at the woman cringing and shaking her head. "They're small or something? I literally don’t know. I don't speak medical. The point is that when your small sinuses get even smaller from allergy swelling and you've got that much blood trying to get out and you don't tip your head back because apparently that's a big no-no nowadays... well the blood's gotta go _somewhere_."

Qrow paused.

" _It came out of my eyes_ ," he whispered, enjoying the moaning sounds that were coming from half the audience. The other half was dead quiet. "I would not fuck with you about this. I swear upon my nieces' lives that the blood came out of my goddamn eyes and I turned to this girl next to me, Sarah-something-or-other in history class..." Qrow demonstrated the turn, nice and slow until the giggles were coming back. “I turned to this girl with a cross around her neck and a beat-up bible stuffed into her backpack and said, with all the passion I could, _hail Satan_.”

Perfect response. Qrow grinned and rocked back at the mix of laughter and indignant cries. He held up his hand for a little control, but that was pretty much impossible.

“At least something good came out of all that nonsense, right?” he shouted over the din. “That’s all I’ve got for you folks tonight. Thanks for being awesome and I hope to see you again!”

It still didn’t quite compute. Standing ovations, that is. Qrow stared at it for a second and then had to turn away, grinning all the while. He gave the audience a final wave and started picking his away across the stage, dodging his cup as well as the myriad of objects that landed at his feet. Not a normal tradition for comedians, but maybe his rockstar image had something to do with it. More often than not people threw a few flowers after a skit, candy sometimes, the occasional teddy bear—like he was a goddamn figure skater. Not that he minded, and the girls certainly loved the free stuff. One time he’d even had a used bra land at his feet and Qrow had chucked it back, yelling that they should toss him boxers instead.

The next performance someone did and Qrow had to ditch his prepared gig to talk about personal boundaries instead. At least they enjoyed it.

Today he just scooped up a flower and waved it cheekily at the audience before finally crossing backstage. He needed that drink now. The hydrating kind, though Qrow would be lying if he said he didn’t want something stronger than water. Sighing he took out his coin, thumbed it into the air, and reminded himself of why he was doing this. There might have been dates and a logo on both sides, but all Qrow saw written there was his girls.

A flash of green caught his eye.

It was an old theater rule that if you could see the audience then congratulations, they could see you too. So when Qrow suddenly met the gaze of someone in the front row he instinctively pulled back against the curtains, not wanting to get dragged into some fangirl's conversation. Curiosity gnawed at him though—a sense of familiarity—and he inched carefully to get another peek.

Wait. Qrow _knew_ that guy.

At least he thought he did. Yeah, oh yeah, that white hair and suit were pretty damn distinctive. Qrow would bet his year’s earnings that this guy had been at his shows before. Maybe even a lot of them. Which was just downright, fucking _weird_ when he bothered to think about it.

Not that enjoying his show was weird. Hopefully. Theoretically. Just that the guy Qrow was watching wait out the crowd didn’t look like he belonged at a gig like this. Same reasons for the recognition. Who the hell wore a suit to one of his gigs? Let alone a fucking green one with an ivory handle cane. Regular wood would serve you just fine, buddy. And were those…? Okay yeah they were glasses, but Qrow didn’t have the vocabulary to get more specific. They were tiny though, like the fancy opera ones, and Qrow wondered for a moment if this guy was just totally lost.

But no. He’d definitely seen him before.

A part of him was tempted to slip back out and risk getting mobbed by those still clearing the room. By the time he’d worked up the nerve though the stranger was also on his way, pausing to look back at the curtains like he knew Qrow was there. He might have made a ‘meep’ sound; might have stumbled farther back into the shadows. When Qrow looked again the guy was halfway up the aisle. He didn’t turn around.

“Huh,” he whispered. “Stalker’s got a nice ass though.”

Qrow paused. “Hey, Jeremy?”

Jeremy seemed to magically appear from the back of the hall. His dreads were longer than half his body and his body was a damn bit taller than Qrow’s. The bastard. “Yeah, boss?”

“You record my shows right?”

“No,” he drawled. “I’m modeling behind that camera.”

Qrow nodded in agreement. “Damn right you are. But I want a copy of this one. Email it to me unedited, ‘kay?”

He was wrestling with the strap of his bag by now, part of it stuffed into his mouth like that was going to somehow help the situation. “Muuuf hooor?”

Qrow took that to mean, 'What for?' He was fluent in asshole employee, but that didn't mean he needed to answer. 

Because honestly? It was so he could get a better look. Maybe. Jeremy often interspersed the long shots of him with shots from behind, catching the audiences’ unguarded reactions, and if the lighting was just bright enough and the angle _just_ right… he might have caught this mystery guy as well.

Not that Qrow cared. Not really. Nope.  _Definitely_ not. 

…nah. 

“None of your business,” he muttered, knocking into Jeremy’s shoulder on his way past. He hoped it would dislodge that curious eyebrow. “Sometimes I just like looking back at my stuff.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do!”

Sounding like a petulant toddler Qrow all but sprinted back across the stage, cutting through a back door so he could thank the owners, grab his stuff, and head on home.

There should be a video waiting for him there.

***

“I used to be a priest before I got into comedy.”

God but he fucking loved that look. The wide-eyed, you- _cannot_ -be-serious look of shock that descended on all their faces at once. It was the one time Qrow could make eye contact with his audience in the front without getting his hands sweaty. Of course, he wasn’t serious and the grin that broke out over his face told the crowd that. They all but sighed with relief.

“I'm just messing with ya. I mean, do I _look_ like a goddamn priest? If anyone even remotely considered the idea please get the hell out of here. Leave and take your ridiculous notions with you—I’m serious!“

No one left (Qrow wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do if they did), but the laughs gave him time to search the crowd for that familiar shock of white hair. The one he’d caught in fuzzy, peripheral bits on last week’s recording. And he found it. There. First row, all the way on the left, arriving seven days later and thousands of miles farther like some goddamn fever dream. The angle of the lights made it impossible to tell whether he’d managed to catch this guy’s eye, but Qrow had the distinct feeling they were locked and loaded. Something about the tingle at the base of his spine and a similar shiver along his scalp. Fucking hell but he’d really shown up. Again. Who _was_ this asshole?

A joyous shout from the back reminded Qrow that—fuck—he was in the middle of a bit on stage. Right. Focus, you useless mass of self-dragging humor. He had to swallow twice before he could get his voice working again.

“Sorry, I was lost in spiritual reflection there for a minute.” They laughed, but it wasn’t entirely a lie… “No, no, I wasn’t anything resembling a priest before I got into this business, can you even believe? And I’m not just talking about my excellent aesthetic either.” Qrow tipped back on his heels to show off the ripped jeans, graphic tee, leather jacket, and metal laden boots he’d dressed in. He hoped Jeremy was listening because having a style 100% was not the same thing as ‘wearing the same damn outfit day in, day out.’ This was a different t-shirt and a different jacket, thank you very much.

Same boots and jeans though. He’d broken them in over the years.

“No, no, I was about as far from priesthood as you could get. I was an alcoholic.” Qrow nodded, somberly letting the giggles peter out. “Sorry, folks. No joke attached to that one. I was a bonafide, grade A, goddamn alcoholic and if it weren’t for the incredibly loving—and patient—nature of three people in this world I probably wouldn’t be here. Not just here here,” Qrow stomped his foot on the stage. “But here anywhere. I was like… okay. Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?”

A few individuals spluttered into laughs again. Qrow thought he caught one from the from left and he triumphantly pointed in Mr. Suit’s general direction.

“Katy fan—I GOT YOU! For real though please picture a torn, deflated, muddy as hell plastic bag that’s just drifting along aimlessly. Poor thing’s in a real pitiful state. Hasn’t carried groceries in years. That was me, everyone. A bag without a purpose. Until my brother-in-law let me move in with him…“ Qrow paused a moment, nodding. ”I know, right? Who the hell wants to spend time with the _in-laws_? But the thing you’ve gotta realize about our family is that we do everything backwards. We both dumped the wife and sister respectively when we realized what kind of toxic waste she was promoting and ended up happier together with the two kinds than we could have ever dreamed. Platonic bliss, boys and girls. And by ‘bliss’ I mean the kind of chaotic nonsense that’s consuming enough to help drag even the most stubborn, depressed asshole like me back into civilization. With the help of a bucketload of therapy, of course. But honestly, watching two little girls try to out-do each other in a pancake eating contest works almost as well as Xanax." 

Qrow let the laughter ripple out from the front rows and up into the seats far above his head, so far back that the people were just a grey-white blur at the edge of his vision. Amongst all the noise though he thought he caught a single chuckle, something soft and appreciative—distinct from the uproar that everyone else gave into. It came from the left.

_Impossible_ , Qrow thought. _I can’t hear one person’s laugh._

Yet somehow he was sure that he had. More than that, Qrow thought he could feel the… _emotion_ behind it. Something more than just humor. There was rust around the edges of that sound, like the person who made it didn’t laugh very often.

_Pull yourself together._ Qrow shook himself like a wet dog.

“I’m still emotionally constipated, don’t get me wrong.” He did a little dance with his derrière that had a few women outright choking. “But at least I can pay those kids and their dad back with money now. I know, I know! Sounds awful right? Greed is the sin of all evil, blah-de-blah-blah. Yeah well, any of you assholes actually think that then congratulations, you’ve never been fucking poor, have you? Tai was skipping meals for a good portion of his adult life and now we have pancake eating contests. What’s life without pancakes, folks? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.“

This was what he was known for. At least, Jeremy and a few other comedians over the years had said as much: a strange mixture of humor and too-hard truths; the ability to make people squirm even while he got them laughing. Qrow wasn’t sure he’d have believed them if he didn’t get to see it for himself. Like right now, some of the individuals he could make out looked torn between rolling their eyes back at the ceiling with mirth or dropping them down into their laps with shame. One reviewer had even gone so far to say that Qrow was politically active in his comedy, as all comedy supposedly should be. He didn’t know if he agreed with either of those points. He was just a better man than he’d been who had a decent talent for entertaining people. That was more than enough in his book.

Qrow bared his teeth with a passion that might have been contagious or threatening, depending on who you spoke to, and launched into another joke.

***

He almost missed his opportunity.

Performing gave Qrow a high that was almost, _almost_ as good as what he once received from booze—good enough to distract him anyway. This time he jogged back on stage for a final bow, letting his chest swell with pride at the storm of applause still coming his way. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin, running on hot coals that didn’t burn him, and the sensations were enough to have Qrow bouncing behind the curtains once more, already pulling his cell out so he could text Ruby and Yang.

A bright spot of color caught his eye though and the phone was slipped back into his pocket, unnoticed.

_Right_ , Qrow thought. _Him. Still waiting for everyone to clear out I guess._

Indeed, that seemed to be exactly what the man was doing. Just like before—and just like on the other recordings that Qrow had spotted him in—the man had secured a seat in the front row and then waited patiently for nearly all the other audience members to leave. About five minutes later Qrow realized why. The cane wasn’t just for show. When the theater had emptied the man made his way slowly to his feet. 

“Hey wait!”

Wait? Yes wait because that had been what Qrow was thinking, but not necessary what he wanted to _shout out loud_. Yet here he was, halfway back onto the stage with his voice echoing through the empty hall. From the corner of his eye Qrow thought he saw Jeremy pulling hastily back; the sound of footfalls getting the hell out of there fast. The poor guy he’d yelled at had frozen in the act of leaving his seat.

Great first impressions.

“I mean…” Qrow cleared his throat. “Just... hey?” _No, don’t make it a question!_ “Hey. I think I’ve seen you around, yeah? I’m Qrow.”

And then he nearly walked back out because of _course_ the guy knew he was Qrow. He’d sat through a bunch of his shows!

Ah. Yep. There it was. The man’s face moved from polite surprise to the twitch of a smile and Qrow found himself thinking back to that laugh he’d heard earlier, even as his face flushed red. The sense that this smile was a rare thing overpowered him and (he thought deeper) it was something worth protecting when it came around. Just as soon as the smile had arrived though it vanished and the man approached the stage with a perfectly polite expression. Qrow dropped down beside him on wobbling legs.

“Pine,” he said, holding out a hand. “Ozpin Pine. And yes, I’m aware of who you are.”

It sounded like some actor saying ‘Bond. James Bond.’ Qrow was torn between laughing and shivering in appreciation. He settled for taking Ozpin’s hand instead.

Warm.

It was warm and solid and confident and all at once Qrow was _very_ aware of the sweat slicking his own palm, the grimy bandaid on his thumb, and how chipped his nail polish was. He didn’t know if he was more mortified about that difference or the assumption that his stupid, anxious brain was making—that Ozpin would notice and definitely care. Qrow opened his mouth and felt the insane need to apologize for something that might not be (shouldn’t be) a problem.

Thank fucking god Ozpin spoke instead.

“I’ve been following this tour,” he said. Okay, okay, now he was the one looking embarrassed. You couldn’t hide a blush on a guy that pale. “I apologize if that devotion is… unwelcome.”

Qrow blinked. Unwelcome? _Devotion?_

“Why—” he had to stop a moment to clear his throat. “Why would I be upset that you’re watching my shows? I mean Jesus, dude, isn’t that the whole point?”

Although when he thought about it, it was a little weird. Qrow wasn’t some rock star, no matter how much he liked dressing like one, and he couldn’t pretend that he’d ever achieve that kind of fame. His gigs weren’t the type to draw adoring fans that followed him ‘round country in old, beat up Chevies. His material wasn’t the sort of stuff you wanted to listen to on repeat—and hell knew he only had a few lineups to cycle through. He wasn’t sure he’d be interested in following a peer of his around, yet here this random guy was catching each and every show…

Qrow wanted to think it was for another reason entirely. He didn’t have quite that amount of self-confidence to voice it though.

Ozpin, amazingly, seemed to miss the rapid confusion, hope, and panic that had flown across Qrow’s face, focusing instead on the head of his cane. When he looked up again the embarrassment was gone and a careful mask had slid back into place. Ozpin now looked only blandly attuned to their conversation; engaged, but also staring just past Qrow’s left shoulder. It was a strange mix that set him back a step. Literally—Qrow putting unconscious distance between the two of them.

“Your material is quite enjoyable,” he said, voice almost robotic in its politeness. “I’m glad that my presence here has not been unwelcome. Or perhaps worse, a distraction. I merely wished to use my winter break in a more innovative manner than I usually would. Experience something… unique. And I had the means to do that, so.” Ozpin shrugged.

Qrow, meanwhile, had more than enough to unpack there. Since when were his skits considered unique? How much ‘means’ did this guy actually have? More importantly, how exactly were they defining _distraction_ here?

What Qrow blurted out was, “Winter break?”

“I teach. Principal, actually. Though I sub classes on occasion.”

“…Right.”

“Indeed.”

“Guess I’m not surprised. Only a professor can get away with that kind of outfit.”

Oh. _Oh_. The mask slipped again. Qrow could see it cracking around the edges, Ozpin’s face twitching, but this time not into a smile. It was falling into something more natural and, at this point, more welcoming: offended shock.

“Excuse me?”

Yeah, Qrow could work with this.

“No offense, dude, but _really_?” He took another step back, using the space to gesture expansively at Ozpin’s… everything. “Who the fuck wears a suit to one of my gigs? Who the fuck wears a _green suit_ —”

“It’s emerald,” he interrupted. Qrow noted the death grip he had on his cane and bit back a grin. Oh no, oh no, he was _cute_ when he was angry.

“That is so not helping your argument.”

“There’s no argument to be had.” Ozpin lifted his nose, transforming himself into the definition of a snooty, bourgeois asshole. “If one can look their best then one should look their best—a philosophy you’ve clearly never bothered to adopt. You needn’t attack those with a sense of fashion merely because you lack one.“

“What!” Qrow squawked like his namesake, rocking back on his heels so the guy could get a good, long look. “Hey, when’s your next eye doctor appointment because you are blind, man. How is this not fashion? This is the very definition of fashion!”

Ozpin’s lip curled. “I fear not. There’s little talent—or aesthetic—in tearing holes into one’s clothing.”

“They’re _strategically placed_ holes. You don’t just rip stuff up willy nilly.”

“Willy nilly? I see that your vocabulary is just as sophisticated.”

With a roll of his eyes Ozpin returned briefly to his seat. Qrow was left gaping at him, his breathing loud in the massive hall. Everything was empty. Everything felt deserted. The rest of his audience was long gone now and Qrow couldn’t hear any of the normal movement backstage of the crew packing things up. Jeremy was gone too. It honestly felt like they were the only two people in existence and they were _fighting_. Kind of. Qrow had wanted to ruffle the guy’s feathers a bit—nothing like annoying someone to see what they were about—but now he was getting insulted instead? Not cool. One little comment and they were already bickering like children.

…Or an old married couple.

What was even stranger than seeing a man in a green suit and a cane giving as good as he got though was a man in a green suit and a cane now holding an honest to god _mug_ in his hands. Qrow blinked. Then blinked again. It wasn’t a travel mug or one of those fancy water bottles, just a regular old, belongs in the kitchen, why the ever loving _fuck_ did he have it here mug. Ozpin retrieved it from the bottom of his seat and went so far as to take a sip, though they both knew it was either empty or stone cold at this point.

“Why are you like this,” Qrow marveled.

Ozpin merely shrugged. “At least I am polite. Thank you for performance and the… memorable conversation, Qrow. I’m not sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

He watched Ozpin leave the theater, this time from an entirely different perspective. It was only hours later, stuffing chocolate down his throat instead of touching any alcohol that Qrow managed to come up with roughly twenty different comebacks, any one of which would have been brilliant, devastating, and totally awesome.

Too bad he wouldn't get the chance to use them. 

Qrow unwrapped another Twix and smacked the two pieces together, like dumbasses knocking heads.

“This wouldn’t be a problem if the asshole had just given me his number.”

***

Oh but it was satisfying, so very, _very_ satisfying to walk out on stage the following Friday and see a smear of green off to his left. Qrow had asked Jeremy to talk to whoever it was he talked to (Qrow didn’t do the whole…social side of gigs. Not really) and get the lights just a little less light-y for tonight—enough that he might be able to see any pertinent assholes stationed in the front row. And there he was. Qrow mentally noted the date and time that he first made eye-contact with Oz and saw that particular scowl cross his features.

…huh. Oz. He kind of liked that.

“Good evening ladies, gentlemen, gentleTHEM, and all you other germs!”

Qrow had walked out tonight with two wildly different skits poised in his head. Now that he’d confirmed Oz was here he knew exactly which one he’d be using.

Time to step up his game.

“Hello, hello, yes it _is_ wonderful to get applauded every time I walk into a room. You know who’s even more worthy of applause though? Weiss Schnee. You don’t know the girl. I guarantee it. That child tolerates exactly four people in her life and you are so not one of them. Sadly, neither am I.”

Now Qrow could freely see Ozpin rolling his eyes; the way he briefly ducked his head to hide an unwelcome smile. He thought those might be even better than his laughs.

“Seriously though, my niece Weiss—all Ruby’s friends are my nieces isn’t that how family works?—well, she’s this big singing hot shot now. So yeah, you might know _of_ her. If you’re lucky anyway. But the point is we all know what side of the family she got her performative talents from, right? No really, okay. The actual point is she was giving a recital at her dad’s super swanky theater. Better than this place... no offence." Qrow cast a cautious look into the wings as his audience chortled. " _Anyway_. Totally cool and straight forward performance. Except they _opened the skylights_ for some unholy reason in the DEAD OF WINTER and fucking SNOW starts pouring in halfway through her song. Now Weiss is a professional. Also she's not allowed to curse yet. So she just gets this _look_ on her face that tells me she's planning some fool's execution at those sixteen-year-old hands. THAT'S how a human reacts to fucking snow in their shit. Or am I wrong about this?”

He was not, in fact, wrong. Not judging by the laughter anyway. Qrow grinned and let his gaze deliberately slide towards Oz. It was really impossible from this distance, but he would have sworn he saw the exact moment the guy froze in realization—the instinctual knowledge that this was leading to something he’d very much regret.

Excellent.

“Now I just want you folks to keep that image in your head for a moment, ‘k? Sixteen-year-old. Very smart. Very scary. Knows how to deal with fucking snow. We’re gonna come back to it, but for now I want to tell you about the moment that single-handedly changed my life. It happened four days ago.”

There were some vague choking sound at that and Qrow bounced in place, speaking faster and faster around his grin.

“That’s not even a joke, you assholes. Four days, twelve hours, and,” Qrow paused to check his watch. “Twelve minutes ago I met Suit Guy and it was the start of a beautiful and frustrating-as-fuck friendship. Because Suit Guy, I’m beginning to suspect, is not of this Earth. He’s an alien. Gotta be. I mean, who the hell dresses like that? What kind of human dresses like that??” Qrow didn’t even need to explain what ‘that’ was yet. Everyone was laughing. “Let me—let me just paint you a picture. Can I do that? Thank you. Okay: green suit. Green scarf. Silver hair. These pointless, tiny glasses that he could crush in his pointless, tiny hands. A cane with an ivory handle… Y’know, the kind that a nerd would carry around. Now I’m not judging the guy on his accommodations, but there are canes you can buy that are about 110% less pretentious. I know. I used one when I shattered my leg in a motorcycle accident. Fun times, that. But this… this was CLEARLY the fashion decision of an alien who’d last visited in the 19th century. Oh, and have I mentioned that he talks like he swallowed a dictionary? Just up and—”

Qrow mimed swallow something large. ...Endowed even, making it more lewd than it needed to be. He deliberately kept his gaze away from the left side of the room and instead focused on the woman having a small seizer two rows in. He wondered if anyone else had looked to Oz and noticed that he seemed shockingly similar to the guy Qrow was currently describing.

“He’s got Thesaurus Mouth Syndrome. Incurable. I’m so, so sorry… but—this is where Weiss comes back in—along with all this other nonsense? The guy had a mug.” Qrow froze, staring out into dead silence. “Not getting it? Let me paint another picture. It’s not a travel mug, folks. Not anything that belongs out in the realm of public men. Just a mug. Like, from a kitchen. He’s got a mug, an _open mug_ , out in this _goddamn snowy weather_. This totally human dude thought that this was a good idea. Apparently. Can you rationally explain this behavior? Because I cannot.”

They were finally on board and Qrow spread his arms, soaking up their (justified) confusion. “This man—THIS MAN, FOLKS—carried an open mug into my show like that was a thing that normal people did. He’s now got snow all up in his coffee. Or hot chocolate. Or whatever it is that aliens drink. I don't even know what to do with that. I'm just gonna shove him in Weiss' direction next time I see him. Hello! How are you, man! Please learn from this literal child! And yet, at the same time… what kind of _power_ move. I insulted his stupid, pointy-ass shoes and I feared for my life. Because if a guy is willing to carry a mug with him everywhere what _else_ is he willing to do?”

Qrow had not insulted Ozpin’s pointy-ass shoes, though in retrospect he should have. He’d finally looked and Oz was seated as far back as he could get, legs crossed, petulant, that fancy shoe tap-tap-tapping in the air. Qrow wasn’t sure if he could put a word to his expression, but damn if it wasn’t intense.

“I can’t wait to see that bastard again,” he said and though he spoke to the crowd only one person really heard him. “Let him explain himself. Just let him _try_.”

Qrow caught Oz opening his mouth as if he really would say something then and there... but then closed it. He merely inclined his head and joined in on the applause.

Qrow: 1. Ozpin: 1. 

Good. Now they were even. 

***

It was official after that; a tradition between them. Qrow nudged the rest of his staff out the door and Ozpin waited for his fellow audience members to disperse. When that was done they met in the middle—though Qrow thought they were stationed a little more towards his end of the room this time. Nice.

They might have been a little closer together too.

“You came back,” Qrow said. He tried to keep the challenge out of his voice. He pretty much failed. In Ozpin’s favor he merely shrugged.

“I had already paid for my ticket,” he said. “Though I cannot swear that I’ll attend the next one.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Uh huh. Sure.

Qrow found himself instinctually leaning back against the stage, hips thrust forward and boots crossed at the ankle. It was what Ruby once called his Super Cool Casual Pose… and Yang called his Dork Pose because she’d been the one to see him lose his balance in it. Luckily Qrow managed to keep his feet this time and just hoped Ozpin was appreciating the view.

Based on that smirk, things might be looking up.

“I'm afraid this is why I wear such expensive shoes,” Qzpin drawled. “If I'm going to put my foot in my mouth I might as well do it in style, yes?"

“Uh, is that supposed to be an apology?”

“Would you accept it if it were?”

“I don’t know. How about you attend my next show to make it up to me?”

Ozpin paused, head bent. Qrow couldn’t swear to it, but he was pretty sure he was hiding another smile.

“Then you must put on an excellent performance to make it up to _me_.”

For a moment Qrow wasn’t sure what he was doing. Ozpin had leaned his cane against his hip and was rolling back his cuffed sleeve to reveal a pale, lean hand. Qrow got the slightest glimpse of his forearm under the theater’s bright lights, shadows playing across his skin, speckled and murky like he was witnessing Oz from under water…and then everything snapped back into focus. That hand now waiting parallel to Qrow’s heart.

He wanted to shake on it. What a _nerd_.

Qrow took it though and the second slide of his hand against Oz’s felt like something slotting into place.

***

“So the Suit Guy, right? You all know who I’m talking about. You’ve all got Youtube.”

There were happy cries from the audience. They _did_ have Youtube and they’d indeed watched all his previous bits on Mr. Green Suit With the White Hair. Those clips were numbering hits in the millions now and Jeremy said their DVDs were selling like crazy. In a world where DVDs were supposedly dead, no less. Hell fucking yeah to that was all Qrow had to say. Ruby was getting those fencing lessons for Christmas.

Only thing was, this time there were definitely people shooting glances Ozpin’s way. Qrow grinned and wondered if anyone would be brave enough to confront him.

“Suit Guy, Suit Guy. Oh how he puzzles me. I’m totally okay with it though because he’s also cute as hell. Yeah. Looks will let you get away with anything nowadays. Like dressing in some vague nineteenth century fashion. Or speaking like you’ve swallowed a dictionary with a stick up its ass. Or carrying a goddamn mug around with you everywhere. Yep! I’m still not over that! But see here’s the thing… none of that shit matters when you’re hot as the goddamn sun. It just _so_ is not a concern anymore. Priorities, people.”

They were nodding enthusiastically in the front rows. Qrow shoved fingers guns their way as he strolled across the stage.

“I saw him,” Qrow whispered conspiratorially. “Suit Guy with just a liiiittle bit of that suit peeled off him. Like unwrapping a present, you know?” He winked and there was a series of varied, wonderful jeers. “Let me tell you, folks… Suit Guy? Mr. Old Fashioned Smarty Pants? He’s is _ripped as hell_ , holy FUCK.”

Qrow had to step away from the mic for a second. That roar he heard? That felt like something very close to validation.

“I know,” he whispered again, done with the pacing and the running of hands through his hair because really. How was he supposed to deal with this revelation lightly? He wouldn't. No sane man could. “I know, I _know_ , I saw that arm and with it I saw the light of day. A religious experience. It was also a bit of an existential crisis because goddamn even the full-blown nerds are more ripped than I am now? How is _that_ fair? I say “full-blown” because I’m also a bit of a nerd. Don’t know if you picked up on that based on literally everything I do. I mean, people say nerds are cool now, but let's be honest. It's a very specific type of nerd that's cool. I didn’t think Suit Guy was it, yet here we fucking are. When I was younger I was the type of nerd that wasn't even cool to the other nerds. This is what we mean nowadays by some guy being ‘out of my league.’"

Yes, Qrow knew damn well Oz was out of his league. He just hoped that maybe the man was just quirky enough not to care about that. He caught his eye, he saw that blush, and Qrow didn’t claim to understand what kind of miracle was happening here…

…but he wouldn’t question it.

"So yeah, I’m still that lame type of nerd now. I'm just a little better at hiding it. You'd be amazed at the shit you learn when you get dragged to two frat parties a night by your jock brother-in-law. Uh huh. Tai is the jock of the family—no fucking doubt about that—and the poor asshole now finds himself surrounded by nothing BUT nerds. Summer was a closeted nerd: you never saw it until it was too late. In Tai's case "too late" meant marriage. Yang is a sports nerd through and through. Our house isn't going to survive the rest of her teenage years. Ruby is a classic nerd with a side obsession with weaponry and oh boy were we unprepared for _that_. Remind me to tell you some time about the morning she crawled into my bed at the crack of dawn and demanded a scythe for her birthday. How the hell does a kid even know what a scythe is? But yeah then there's me pulling a Summer on poor Tai, looking like I'm totally cool—don’t laugh, that wasn’t the joke!— when I'm anything but. There. _Now_ you laugh. Honestly though, I'm not afraid of Suit Guy rejecting me. I'm afraid of Tai straight up _murdering_ me if I bring another nerd into his life. You lot got any survival tips?“

As the crowd yelled out what they might think of as advice (most of which Qrow wouldn’t repeat, let alone try out), Ozpin deliberately stretched those arms up in an ultra-fake stretch, drawing attention to himself until, yes, Qrow’s eyes were back on him. He didn’t know when exactly he’d learned how to read the guy, but the manner in which he settled back into his chair spoke volumes: if there was any true difference between their worths (and Qrow would bet a fucking lot that there was)… it didn’t matter. Oz didn’t care. Qrow might not know much about this guy yet, but he knew that expression on any man’s face and it lit a fire that burned hotter than the theater lights overhead. When Ozpin crossed his legs and leaned a little further into the chair—a seated version of the pose Qrow had struck just days before—it felt like an invitation. No. More than that. It was some kind of _promise_ , though damn if Qrow would allow himself to articulate what that might be. Besides, it wasn’t like he was known for being straightforward either. Were his skits just a joke, or something else?

Let Ozpin figure it out.

Qrow twirled his mic like a baton and dove back in.

***

There were other days, other shows, that spread like water around Qrow: all seemingly the same except for small eddies and currents, differences that made each worth watching. On a Tuesday night Ozpin held his mug in full view during what was quickly becoming a fan-favorite skit, dragging an unexpected laugh out of Qrow that was too long, too wild, and left his audience unsure about whether they should be laughing too. On a Thursday he got back at Oz by sporting a horrific green scarf he’d picked up on Wednesday, looped twice around his neck but still so long it almost tripped him twice during the show. If people were confused about the change in fashion—and according to Jeremy’s Twittersphere they were—Qrow wasn’t about to explain. The one who needed it got the joke.

On Friday Ozpin lingered a little longer than usual, the two of them trading pleasantries that didn’t feel commonplace anymore. On Saturday Qrow dared to bridge the distance again and slapped Ozpin on the shoulder, the act leaving his palm warm and tingling the rest of the night.

On Sunday Qrow got sick.

Oh, nothing horrible. In all honesty he wasn't even sure if it was an actual cold or just a reaction to another drop in the temperature; lingering allergies that never quite seemed to go away. However, whatever it was left his throat scratchy and caused his head to pound with a ferocity that he knew only sleep would touch. Speaking was difficult that night, his energy almost non-existent, and the intense lights of the stage made him unexpectedly woozy. By the end of the hour Qrow knew he hadn’t been up to his usual par and that he should expect some lukewarm reviews come morning. He could deal with that. His blurry eyes finding the empty seat in the front row though?

Not so much.

“Don’t know what you fuckin’ expected,” he muttered, even as it sent fire down his throat and started a coughing fit that just. wouldn’t. stop. Qrow waved Jeremy impatiently back to the dressing room and pulled a well-used tissue out of his pocket. “What’d you want the guy to do, huh? Make you chicken soup?”

“It’s store bought, actually.”

Qrow let out a shriek that echoed across the theater’s high walls, a number of hands backstage delivering laughs in response. He didn’t put his hand to his chest or clasp at a string of imaginary pearls, but it was a near thing. Ozpin had somehow snuck up behind him, no doubt with some help from his wool-stuffed head. In fact, Qrow was half convinced he was hallucinating when Oz held up tissues, Aspirin, and a brown bag of something that smelled positively divine. He shook it all pointedly at Qrow when he remained frozen, now seated slumped against the stage.

“You really shouldn’t be performing while ill,” Ozpin admonished. He emptied a hand and lifted it like he wanted to press against Qrow’s cheek… then he halted. “I apologize for leaving in the middle of your act, but I thought you’d want something for when you’d finished. I… was I mistaken?”

In response Qrow fumbled Ozpin’s hand back up to his forehead and plastered it there. Ozpin's hiss told him that yeah, shit. He was developing a fever.

“You can’t be sweet _and_ hot,” Qrow whined, nuzzling the now cool skin. “That’s not fuckin’ fair.”

“I fear I’m not the one who’s hot here.”

Eyes closed he felt Ozpin’s laugh reverberating through him. After a moment the hand withdrew—reluctantly—and a cool water bottle was replaced against his skin. Feeling exhausted and strangely giddy, Qrow cracked one eye back open.

“No mug today?”

“No mug.”

"Lame." 

Instead Ozpin juggled the Aspirin and tissues, the lovely smelling soup and a collection of plastic spoons. Namely, enough for two. Qrow found himself bustled into one of the seats—strange seeing the stage from this perspective—and waited on like he had the plague rather than a nasty, winter cold. Once settled Ozpin took a large bite of the minestrone even as Qrow shook his head.

“Now you’re gonna get sick,” he said, spooning up his own serving. Ozpin’s smile was just as small and enigmatic as he'd remembered.

“I feel as if we’re already sharing quite a bit with one another,” he murmured. “Speaking of which…”

Maybe the lights and the fever and three weeks worth of performances were finally catching up with him because Qrow felt woozy when Ozpin reached over to fish into his pocket, that simple action throwing him entirely off balance. Ozpin handled Qrow’s phone like he had every right to claim his things (he did) and Qrow watched, blinking, as a new name was added to his contacts. That done, Ozpin slid the phone back over his thigh—a whisper of plastic on jeans—and leveled him with a look worthy of a schoolmaster.

“Finish your soup,” he said, helping Qrow with the task. Odd, but even with his tastebuds all wonky it seemed to taste better with two. 

They ate in silence for a long, slow stretch; knees pressed tight together and the food balanced between them. When they ran out and Ozpin stood, Qrow didn’t feel like he was losing anything this time.

He just smiled and coughed weakly into his shoulder. “I should be making a joke right about now. You know, cut the romantic tension. Give you a proper sendoff…”

Ozpin’s lips twitched at ‘romantic.’ “Will you get home okay?”

“Yeah. Jeremy will give me a lift.”

“Good. Then you can say something witty after you’ve called to tell me you’re safe.”

Ozpin paused with coat and phone in hand, parallel to Qrow’s shoulder, eyes locked on the door. Still keeping his gaze on something Qrow couldn’t see he bent… before pausing again, chuckling just an inch from Qrow’s lips.

“That _will_ make me sick,” Ozpin murmured and placed the kiss on his cheek instead. It seared in a way that had nothing to do with his fever. Qrow raised a shaky hand and let Oz run his fingers through his as he left.

The theater was shockingly quiet after that, enough that even an exhausted man could hear his own thoughts. Qrow decided to voice them because what the hell. Why not.

“That almost felt like a date.”

An objectively shitty one. Personally _perfect_. Qrow snatched the empty container as he called for Jeremy, already thinking about his next skit.

  
***

Just yards away Oz still had his phone out when he exited the theater, a light snow falling across his shoulders and making him laugh. Really, he’d never had that before: a soft warmth spreading through his limbs even in the most bitter temperatures; the ability for simple, everyday things to leave him smiling. It was new and… quite welcome. Qrow had done that.

What an infuriating man. 

“Hmm. What now,” he murmured, still letting the laugh carry him forward. His phone had been lighting up with messages for the last hour as he shopped and ate, and it was only out of the tattered threads of respect he still possessed for Qrow hadn’t checked it during their time together. Ozpin was only slightly surprised to see that all twenty-eight of the texts were from Glynda. In retrospect, she was the only one who ever kept in personal contact over their vacations—something he now felt oddly inclined to change.

“Please not another budget issue,” he murmured, scrolling quickly to the top. No all caps like she’d use if Ozpin had somehow screwed them over for the spring semester, but what he actually found was far, far worse.

_so what’s this I hear about some comedian with a new skit?_

…Oh no.

_you think I haven’t watched Qrow Branwen, Oz?_

_EVERYONE has watched Qrow Branwen_

_he’s on youtube_

_as in, the leaked performances where he discusses a very distinctive man I have the dubious honor of being colleagues with…_

_Ozpin._

_I know you went on a “respite” but since when do you follow comedians?_

_please don’t tell me you’ve been to all of his shows this break_

_OZPIN_

_how EXACTLY did you become a part of his man’s routine_

_OZPIN. ANSWER YOUR PHONE._

It went on like this for another eighteen texts, what little grammar there was sliding away while the language itself became more…creative. A part of Ozpin was tempted to save these and show them to Glynda’s class next semester; let them get a sense of what their math instructor was truly like behind that icy exterior. The rest of him was having a very mild, entirely logical panic attack. After a few more seconds of hemming and hawing—quite literally turning in circles on the still busy, city street and procuring all the strange looks that were due him—Ozpin typed back a thoughtful and entirely heartfelt message.

_I have no idea what you’re talking about._

Glynda’s answer was instantaneous. Never a good sign.

_oz. white haired professor with terrible fashion sense? please_

_For shame! That could be anyone. Or do you subscribe to the outdated belief that everyone must dye their hair in some misguided effort to avoid the inevitable passage of time? (Also, further proof: my fashion sense is quite stunning, so.)_

_no. also HA. but look at you ending your text with a dangling ‘so’ I’m oddly proud_

_Thank you._

_yet not proud enough to let you weasel your way out of this. white haired guy in a green suit, tiny glasses, and cane? c’mon, oz_

_You can’t prove a thing… Certainly nothing regarding whether I did or did not kiss the man after the show tonight._

And so it began. Or perhaps something ended; something that Ozpin was quite happy to let go of. With a grin he tucked his phone back into his pocket and allowed it buzz buzz away. Let Glynda gnaw on that piece of gossip for a while.

It was about time he was heading back and despite the long trek ahead of him Ozpin quite felt like walking. After all, he had a new number to call if he got bored along the way.

The thought warmed him further and burying a smile beneath his scarf, Ozpin turned towards home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the health problems/injuries/ridiculous stories are a mashup of my and a friend's childhoods. Fun times! lol


End file.
